For These Blessings
by Hekate1308
Summary: The family one celebrated with didn't always have to be of one's own blood.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: Who am I to let go of a beloved tradition? Well, beloved by me, anyway. So here'S my four-part Christmas fanfiction. This time I simply picked "family" as my theme. Enjoy!**

"Mickey, have you seen your brother?"

He had dreaded the question for quite some time, just like the abbreviation of his name. Neither his dignified silence nor his grimace deterred his mother, who repeated the question.

"No, I have not seen Sherlock" he replied.

"Can you go look for him? You always find him so fast, and Gran and Gramps are going to arrive soon".

Mycroft considered eye-rolling beneath him, but was tempted to do so as he walked up the stairs of their home. Sherlock didn't enjoy being cold, so unless he had a good reason, he wouldn't have left the house, and he knew of none. So he had to hide somewhere.

His mother knew all of this perfectly well. She was as intelligent as Mycroft but often chose to pretend not to be in order to grant them a "normal" childhood. Mycroft saw no advantage. They were not normal, thankfully, so why did they have to act like they were?

Sherlock was not in his room, of course. Mycroft sighed. Christmas would be much easier if his brother was to accept that Mummy's parents wanted to see them and smile and tell them how much they had grown. Sherlock resented that they treated him like a child – considering he was seven years old, Mycroft thought his complaints rather illogical.

Then again, he had been annoyed at them when he had been that age as well. But he had been reasonable, had accepted the pats on his head, made polite conversation. Sherlock would be silent and spent the evening pouting.

Really, it would be much easier to excuse him altogether. But Mummy wanted her parents to see them, so they would.

After he had gone through each room but his own, he stood in front of his door.

Sherlock had always felt the safest in his brother's room, although he hadn't admitted it since he was five.

He walked in.

"Sherlock" he called out, "please don't force me to search for you. I would find you. Let us bring this pathetic game to an end".

In the next moment, Sherlock stood in front of him, looking disgruntled.

Mycroft sighed.

"I know you don't think much about them, Sherlock, but they are your family".

"And why should I be nice to them? It's just a fact".

He agreed with his brother, even if he didn't tell him. It was true. There was no reason to tolerate others simply because they were related to them.

"You know it will make Mummy happy".

Mycroft was aware that he was manipulating his brother, but he didn't care. As long as it got him to be nice to their grandparents –

"Fine" Sherlock grumbled. Then he looked up, his eyes hopeful.

"Can we go stargazing tonight?"

Sherlock loved looking at the stars, especially considering he shared Mycroft's opinion that it was useless to learn anything about planets or constellations. They had to keep their minds free from anything that wouldn't be of any use in the long run or they would be overwhelmed.

Mycroft remembered when he'd been Sherlock's age and not yet learned to filter and delete data. It had been a nightmare. He'd made sure to teach Sherlock as soon as he could understand what he meant.

But the stars were beautiful to look at, and he wouldn't let his little brother do it alone. Their parents didn't want him to leave the house on his own.

"Of course" he answered and Sherlock's face lit up in the way it always did when he was genuinely happy.

Coming to think of it, Mycroft hadn't seen that smile in quite some time. He had been busy with school; at fourteen, it was time to focus on what career path he wanted to choose – he had several options, and he had to think about it carefully before making a decision. At the same time, he had to make sure that he was well-liked by his teachers and Mummy's influential friends – mostly professors from her time as one – who came to dinner.

He had neglected his little brother. He was the only one who could understand Sherlock. Mummy was intelligent, but she had always been able to converse easily with people. Sherlock and Mycroft were different. While the elder brother used this to his advantage, Sherlock seemed to be angry that others didn't understand him.

"How about we go down?" he asked, and Sherlock pouted but noted.

The Christmas decorations soon turned Sherlock into the child he was. Even though he tried to appear dignified like his brother, he loved Christmas. If he was honest, Mycroft did too.

They just didn't like being treated like they were regular children. Despite their youth, one could talk to them like adults.

Well, if Sherlock didn't decide to sulk, which he was trying to do but failing at because their mother had once more outdone herself with the Christmas decorations.

In fact, he liked them so well that he didn't even frown when the doorbell rang and Mummy told him to open the door.

"Sherlock!" their grandmother's voice was heard. "How you've grown!"

"Hello, Gran" Sherlock replied and Mycroft was certain that only he could detect the resignation in his voice. "Gramps".

"You'll be a man before you know it" their grandfather said good-naturedly, and Mycroft was sure he ruffled Sherlock's hair as he did so.

Sherlock hated that.

Their grandmother rushed into the room and hugged him.

"Mycroft! Look at you. Quite the gentleman".

He'd taken to wearing a suit on most occasions. It commanded respect. Sherlock was wearing one too because Mummy had forced him to – in fact, Mycroft had been pleasantly surprised to see it in one piece when he had found Sherlock.

"Thank you, Gramps".

He laughed.

"You always sound so formal". He glanced at Sherlock. "At least one of you is a kid".

He meant well, Mycroft knew; and Sherlock knew too. But his little brother, even though he should not treat him like that, was a child, and therefore he immediately stepped away and sat down on the sofa.

"Harold" their grandmother chided her husband good-naturedly. She didn't know that she only made everything worse. There was obvious condescension in her attempt to make Sherlock feel better by telling him off.

Mummy, thankfully, noticed and offered cookies.

At least that had Sherlock stop frowning.

Their father, as always, kept back. He was aware of his children being different, of being like his wife, and he never treated them like their grandparents did. He only ever showed them affection and love, and he meant a lot to both of them.

"Maybe the cookies will finally put some meat on your brother's bones" he told Mycroft. Sherlock was thin, but he had always been. Mycroft wasn't concerned about his weight in the least. He knew his brother ate enough.

It was just another proof of their father's love for them, though, so he smiled and nodded.

Their father patted Sherlock's shoulder because he, unlike their grandfather, would never ruffle his hair if his younger son didn't want him to.

Mycroft smiled.

It was when his mother threw him a bright grin and shoved cookies into his hand that he realized that he hadn't smiled genuinely in a while either.

It wasn't that he was unhappy, like he suspected that Sherlock had been because he'd been busy. He simply had not much occasion to smile. But Mummy liked it when he did, so he would spend the rest of the Christmas holidays doing it more often, he decided.

All in all, it went better than he had expected. Then again, Sherlock had the promise of stargazing to hold unto while their grandparents questioned him about school and whether he had made friends.

Sherlock didn't like school. He didn't enjoy interacting with other children. Mycroft understood their parents' insistence that he try to make friends, but he didn't think it was a good idea.

Mummy had never had any trouble concealing her intelligence in order to fit in; it hadn't cost her anything. But him and Sherlock – to lie about their minds felt wrong.

But Mycroft had social skills. He would never hide what he was capable of, but at the same time he would be able to treat people in a way that they weren't intimated. Unless he wanted them to be.

Sherlock, though...

He had noticed as soon as his little brother started to talk that he wasn't ready to pretend, to play nice when he didn't want to.

Unfortunately, he never wanted to.

This fact, together with his tendency to bluntly state the truth about what he was thinking and feeling at the moment made it unlikely that he would ever connect with someone outside his family.

And even that, as their grandparents demonstrated, sometimes didn't amount to much.

But Sherlock had cookies as well as stargazing and presents tomorrow to look forward to, so he answered his grandparents' questions politely, if not kindly, and they were used to that.

Mycroft saw that Mummy recognized it as the victory it was, while Dad simply listened to their conversation with a smile on his face.

When they finally started talking to Mycroft, Sherlock slipped out of the room. He hadn't expected different behaviour.

Their grandparents were used to that too, thankfully, so they let it slide, and while they and Mummy and Mycroft had tea – they had made the wise decision not to come to dinner, but later, so that Sherlock hadn't had to endure a whole hour of questions – Dad slipped out for a few minutes.

It was one of his rituals to look in on Sherlock when he went to his room. He looked in on Mycroft as well after he came back from school. He never said anything, only smiled gently and closed the door.

He came back quickly, still smiling.

Sherlock was probably experimenting in his room. Since they didn't allow him to use any harmful substances, they didn't have to worry.

His little brother came back later, a smudge of what looked like mud on his hand, to say goodbye just as the sun was setting.

He even allowed Gramps to ruffle his hair again.

Mycroft would have been surprised at his complacency if he hadn't seen him turn around a moment later and grab the rest of the cookies.

As soon as it was dark, he was dragged into the garden by his overenthusiastic brother. When Sherlock liked something, he was unstoppable. Mycroft called out to their mother were they were going – Sherlock wouldn't have – and then they stood under the stars.

They never talked much when they went stargazing. They simply stood there and looked up in the beauty of the night sky.

Mycroft had to admit Sherlock had a point. It was beautiful.

"Mycroft?"

It was one of the things he liked most about his brother. Sherlock had never called him "Mickey", not even before he had known how to pronounce his name properly. He had noticed he didn't like it and therefore always called him by his right name.

He looked in his brother's eyes and noticed how happy he seemed.

It really had been a long time since they last stargazed together.

"Yes?"

"Nothing" Sherlock said, looking back up, and Mycroft realized that, just like he, Sherlock was going to grow up early.

Not that he noticed any of that on the next day, when Sherlock happily handed him a present "he had saved for".

It turned out to be a watch.

From then on, Mycroft wore it every day of his life.

**Author's note: I couldn't resist, so during the next few weeks, you will be subjected to my Christmas mood every Wednesday. **

**So here have a Christmas with little Sherlock and big brother Mycroft and stargazing. And canon-compliant parents because we have seen them now.**

**And stargazing.**

**God, I love Christmas.**

**Happy Advent!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: Because family can mean many things and I was inspired. **

**Enjoy!**

He should start looking for a significant other, he decided. The holiday season would be much more fun if there was someone to look forward to.

As it was, he spent the second week of December, just like innumerable ones before, mostly in his office. Before Christmas, people usually got anxious to buy – well, anything, and therefore he finally could sell shares that would normally lie around forever. He told people that they weren't going to make them any money, but he didn't keep them from buying. He had to live somehow, didn't he? And the boss demanded results.

On Wednesday on this completely normal week, he was writing a report when he decided to take a break and read the newest headlines. It always relaxed him.

He hadn't expected to read _Amateur detective returns from the dead._

He stared at the screen for a few minutes before he began reading the article.

Sherlock was alive.

Seb had thought about him often in the last two years. He hadn't meant to do it, in fact before it all happened he would have been certain that he'd barely notice the consulting detective was gone. He had barely noticed he was alive, after all.

And yet –

Sherlock Holmes had simply not seemed the type to die. He hadn't seemed like he would ever die. He had made his way through uni without caring what the others, including Seb, thought of him and had created his own career without any of those connections he had cultivated from a young age.

He couldn't say why he had felt guilty not to have stayed in contact after Sherlock had saved his job. Because he had saved it – his boss had wanted answers and it would have been Seb who'd have to take the blame if the culprit wasn't found.

But he was. Sherlock found him and had even declined the money. He was glad now that his friend-partner-in-crime-whatever had taken the check.

Seb had treated him badly during the case.

He had been afraid to lose his job, and it wasn't like they had been friends. He'd laughed with the others when they had called him "freak", he had told him to "Piss Off" when he'd looked at him and known Seb had had sex the previous night; but –

But.

He had been one of the students that Sherlock had tolerated. True, that didn't amount to much; he wasn't insulted on a regular basis, though.

And even then, Sherlock had impressed him. Seb's life had been planned carefully from the day he was born; Sherlock went his own way. He was unpredictable.

Seb had found himself one of the few who listened to his ramblings when they had nothing better to do. He had to admit it was even interesting, how Sherlock could be fascinated by such little things like a pen that didn't sit at its usual place on the professor's desk and just know that his marriage was in trouble. How he could get lost in his mind and not realize that someone was standing right in front of him unless one shook him by the shoulders.

He had often thought that they had all hated him, but he later admitted to himself that he had never truly hated Sherlock.

And when he heard about his suicide –

All he could think about was that he had sent an e-mail, rather pathetically trying to pretend that they had been friends, hadn't even told Sherlock what had happened, although he made it clear on his homepage that he only wanted cases that were worth his while, and that Sherlock had come.

He had followed the story about Richard Brook, of course. And from the beginning, he had considered it ridiculous. It was impossible that Sherlock invented all the crimes. Everything would get cleared up.

But it didn't and then Sherlock Holmes was dead.

For two years.

He never raised his voice, like other clients of Sherlock's. One man from Dartmoor, Henry Knight, was the principal spokesman, declaring that the consulting detective saved his sanity and his father's memory.

He never visited his grave.

He never called at 221B to give his condolences.

And yet he was incredibly happy that Sherlock was alive.

Somehow, he was glad that this strange man he had never really known was alive.

When he asked his secretary to get him coffee, he noticed the strange looks she was shooting him. Either he was smiling too much – and that was a possibility, considering he wore the first genuine smile he had worn in God knew how long – or she remembered.

He didn't doubt that the country would talk about this for a long time.

He turned out to be right. Within an hour, several colleagues had called and a few had even shown up in his office.

Seb tried to explain that they weren't friend, that he had never been in regular contact with Sherlock since uni, but after the third time, he gave up and simply replied, "Yes, he's back".

He didn't doubt the truth of the article. If anyone would return from the dead, it would be Sherlock Holmes.

The next week was filled with work and more articles and news reports. Seb couldn't explain to himself why he kept coming back to them, but he did.

Somehow, Sherlock Holmes being alive seemed more important than the market. Not that he'd ever tell anyone. He would very much like to keep his job.

He read the apologies of several journalists, and he still didn't understand why he felt so chipper.

Maybe it was because the consulting detective might be the only good person he knew, and how ironic their former unimates would think this statement was.

Aside from rejoicing, he had no plans whatsoever to acknowledge Sherlock Holmes' return.

As he had found out, nothing went as planned with Sherlock Holmes.

And so he found himself in front of 221B in the third week of December.

A few houses down, a store was playing loud music. Christmas music. He suddenly realized that it was indeed only a few more days until Christmas. He should call his parents. They hadn't spent the holiday together for a long time. He was usually too busy. And his parents, living out there retirement in Florida, had never expressed a desire to see him.

He was too busy for this visit, he suddenly remembered. He should be working.

And yet he knocked.

The old lady he remembered from pictures in newspapers opened, and he was shocked at the difference in her appearance.

Most of the pictures had been from the funeral or the investigation in Sherlock's career; she had been dressed in black, her face haggard. She had looked old, much older than the age announced in the articles that Seb had decided to forget because he was a gentleman after all.

Now, she was wearing a dress that, while colourful, fit her well, she was smiling and he would easily have thought she was fifty.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Is Sherlock home?" he inquired, feeling like a schoolboy who was asking the mother of his friend if he could come out to play.

She nodded. "He has quite a few cases at the moment, though – "

"No" he interrupted her, for the first time in years feeling unsure when talking to someone who wasn't his superior. "I am Sebastian Wilkes – Sherlock helped me out a few years back".

Her eyes lit up. He wondered if she knew about the case. Probably.

"Come in".

She led him up the stairs with a vitality that once more belied her age, knocked and entered immediately.

"Sherlock? There's a friend of yours come to see you".

Sherlock grumbled something in reply that sounded suspiciously like "Go away" and Seb, who'd stayed on the landing, couldn't suppress a smile. He sounded exactly like the young student who had occasionally snarled at those who didn't knew and decided to speak to him.

"Don't be like that" Mrs. Hudson chided him. "You only just came back. Sebastian wants to – "

"Sebastian?"

He knew he shouldn't have felt guilty at the confusion in Sherlock's voice, but he did.

He stepped in.

"Hi, buddy" he greeted him, more self-conscious than he could ever remember feeling.

Sherlock was lying on the sofa, dressed in a suit. He knew better than to think the consulting detective hadn't been doing anything, though.

He had probably been lost in his mind, doing his thing.

The same thing he was doing to Seb now. For the first time, it occurred to him that Sherlock might not know he made people uncomfortable with his stares. Maybe he thought that since they wore their secrets on their sleeves anyway, they wouldn't be ashamed of them.

"You are considered for a promotion" he told him matter-of-factly. Seb nodded. His boss had been talking about it for months. He was cautiously optimistic.

Sherlock's eyes wandered up and down his body a few times more. Seb realized that he was trying to find out why he was here and that not even Sherlock Holmes could read his thoughts.

He was convinced he was here because he wanted Sherlock to solve a case.

He couldn't blame him.

"Well..." he began. "I read you were back and I thought I would drop by".

This was far from the smart and popular personality he had built for himself. His one consolation was that, for the first time in their long acquaintance, he had surprised Sherlock Holmes. He even got up from the sofa.

At least he had accomplished something.

He wanted to ask where John was, but it wasn't his place, and he had no idea where they stood after Sherlock had been gone for a year. He didn't know if the doctor had known he was alive. He didn't know what Sherlock had done during this time. He didn't know what he was thinking of his visit.

He shouldn't have come.

He looked around the flat. After he had read so much about Sherlock and gone over John's blog more than once in the last week, the realization that he had never been here felt almost surreal.

It was... homely. He couldn't find a better word for it. But something was missing.

He suspected that something was a rather small former soldier.

"This is the part where I offer you tea, I am told" Sherlock drawled, sounding bored.

He turned around.

"I remember the sounds coming from your room" he answered, referring to explosions that had kept up the whole floor. "I'd rather not drink anything you touched".

He only realized that he was teasing him good-naturedly when Sherlock smiled.

"I didn't touch it. Mrs. Hudson is sure to bring it in –"

Before he could finish the sentence, his landlady came in; she didn't bring only tea, but cake as well, since "it is the season after all" and left them with a smile.

"The season" Seb murmured absent-mindedly to himself while he accepted the cup Sherlock offered him.

Sherlock looked at him. "You are not going to visit your parents" he stated, and Seb found to his surprise that his ability to know everything at a glance didn't irritate him anymore. Maybe it never truly had.

"We are not exactly the celebrating type" he informed him.

"You would be surprised" Sherlock replied. "Mrs. Hudson is forcing me to host a Christmas party for my friends again".

If the word "again" hadn't been enough to surprise Seb, Sherlock's careless use of the words "friends" would. He had never had any friends except for the doctor, he believed.

"Oh?" was all he answered, trying to sound sympathetic.

"You should come".

Sherlock wasn't asking. Nor was he stating his opinion that Seb should come.

He was leaving him a choice.

He wondered if he had ever really known Sherlock Holmes.

A surprise visit and a few stuttered words didn't make them friends, but maybe he could get to know him.

He nodded. It was answer enough.

**Author's note: I will make you like Sebastian one day muahahahaha**


	3. Chapter 3

It was her first Christmas back in her home country.

When she had left Florida, she had barely paid attention to the time of the year. Now, three months later, she was living in Baker Street and surrounded by Christmas cheer.

They hadn't celebrated the holidays in years. Frank had been busy running a drug cartel, and she had had to type so much, they hadn't noticed most of the time that it was Christmas to begin with. And then, it was supposed to be a time one spent with the people one loved.

Her and Frank had soon fallen out of love after their marriage, in fact, it was difficult to say if they had ever loved each other. The sex had been great, but other than that... She and Frank hadn't really fit together.

There was no point in thinking about times gone by, however, so she would enjoy the first proper Christmas in a long time. Her sister would come up to London to celebrate with her – after years of silence, they had finally started talking again when she contacted her during the trial.

And she finally had a house to decorate that wasn't full of security cameras. They had always been awful to dust.

As she put up her decorations – even when they had celebrated, Frank had complained that her taste was "excessive" and that "a few lights had to be enough", so she enjoyed putting up as much as she pleased – she couldn't help but think of the boy who had helped her.

Sherlock Holmes, the strange young man who had shown up seemingly out of nowhere and had ensured Frank's execution.

She had been shocked when he had been arrested, but she would freely admit that she had been relieved, too. She was tired of the high life, tired of the continual looking over their shoulders, tired of covering their tracks.

She didn't have much to do with Frank's business if she didn't count the typing, and yet she saw a police car follow her more than once when she went shopping. That was no way of living.

And then, of course, there were the girls.

Despite their differences, she had never cheated on her husband. She would never have been able to do that. Her marriage vows had been a promise. She would have been happy if they had simply lived their own lives while still respecting these promises. But he never had. She had lost count of the times he had smelled of strange perfume, stayed out the whole night, ignored her questions.

The police men who came to question her after his arrest were very polite and tried to make her admit that Frank had treated her even worse. He had never laid a hand on her, no matter what they thought. He had never been as bad as that.

By that time, she had met Sherlock, and he had never asked her questions like that. He claimed that he knew everything, and she believed him.

He ran into her on the street one day. She was carrying groceries home, Frank was out doing God knew what, and suddenly a young man propelled into her. She managed to hold on to her bags, but only just.

As soon as she turned around and saw the poor boy lying in front of her, though, she forgot all about them.

He looked like he hadn't eaten properly for days, there were dark circles under his eyes, and he was staring at her, surprised.

"Are you alright?" she asked softly, and he jumped up and dusted non-existent dirt of the suit that clung to his lithe frame.

"I am. I apologize; I didn't see you".

She was later to find out that he had misjudged her speed as he had been trailing her and had hastened to follow her around a corner.

He wanted to retreat, but she stopped him.

"You look like you could use a meal. Why don't you keep my company? My husband isn't at home at the moment".

He had told her this morning that he was going "out"; either he had business to attend to or he would see one of his girls.

She wished that she could regret that she didn't care, but she couldn't change how she felt about it.

He stared at her, and she wondered if he had understood her, when he nodded, obviously confused.

He followed her home, not offering to take any of her bags, but since she had decided after taking one look at him that he was rather peculiar, she wasn't surprised.

He looked around the house, frowning, and she'd thought then that he didn't like the furniture when she now knew that he had been deducing it.

Looking for evidence.

When she asked him what he had been doing in this part of town – it was June, after all, and no one else had been running around in a suit – he didn't answer. He kept frowning at her.

It took him the whole meal she forced on him to come to a decision. He cleared his throat as he pushed the empty plate away.

"You are – different than your reputation suggests, Mrs. Hudson".

She hadn't told him her name, and she was immediately on her guard. Living with Frank had taught her to be cautious.

"What do you mean?" she asked calmly.

"A woman who types her husband's threats and proceeds to send them to his enemies normally doesn't offer meals to strange men".

She had moved closer to the drawer Frank made her keep a gun in. She hated those things, but she needed some means of protecting herself in the house.

"That won't be necessary" he said immediately, and she suddenly realized that she hadn't even asked his name.

He looked older now than he had in the street.

"I am in the habit of typing my husband's business letters for him" she finally answered.

"The business letters of a drug lord" he said, raising an eyebrow.

How could she explain to him that it had simply – happened? She had never wanted to be the wife of a criminal. She hadn't even chosen to be so, not really. Frank had committed a few petty crimes before they married, but he had promised her that it was over, that it was all over. And then they moved.

And he was her husband, and she was alone in a strange country, and she could type.

She tried not to think too much about the cartel, about what they did. She lost herself in her routine, in caring for their house, their garden.

He stared at her as if she was an interesting specimen, but he didn't say anything.

The silence lasted for minutes. Finally, he stood up, let his eyes roam up and down her body once more, and left the room. She thought he was gone, but then she realized he was walking up the stairs.

She didn't stop him.

She started washing their plates and heard him moving around. She knew from years of living in this house in which room he was; knew that now, he was looking at her room; now at Frank's; now the bathroom.

It was strange how apathetic she felt about a stranger walking around in her home. Maybe because...

Maybe because it hadn't been a home in a long time. Not a real home like the one she had lived in with her parents and sister.

At the beginning, when Frank hadn't yet decided to build up the cartel, when they had been young and optimistic and happy, yes.

Now – now it was her place, her reason to exist. She didn't love Frank, but she had to love something, so why not the house? At least it would never cheat on her.

He came back down.

"You don't know anything" he stated. "Neither about the cartel nor about the murders".

The plate she had been rinsing fell in the sink, shattering. She turned around.

She was ready to believe much, but she couldn't believe that. Frank wouldn't kill someone. He wasn't that bad a person.

"He shot two men working for another cartel" he informed her. "I assume with the pistol in your drawer".

She opened it without another word. He put on gloves and took it out.

"What is going to happen now?" she inquired.

"Your husband will be put on trial. Executed, most likely" he answered, and she was grateful for the honest answer.

"What about me?" she added. Frank had given her the pistol a long time ago, but she had touched it then; there might still be fingerprints on it, and she didn't want to die for a murder she hadn't committed.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson. You didn't do anything".

She couldn't tell if there was condescension in his words or not.

As he turned around to leave, she remembered something.

"What is your name?" she called after him.

He didn't turn around as he answered "Sherlock Holmes".

Then he was gone.

It wasn't the end. It surprised both of them, but Sherlock kept visiting her, even after Frank had been arrested, even after he had been convicted.

They didn't talk much; mostly she made dinner and they ate in silence.

She liked the companionship he provided, and she wondered where the loneliness in his eyes came from. She expressed none of these thoughts.

She looked out of her window at Baker Street. She believed he had looked sad when she had told him she was moving.

She hoped he wouldn't be alone on Christmas.

There was a knock on her door and she went to open it, surprised. She had already got her mail and Mrs. Turner was visiting her niece in Cornwall.

She didn't expect to find Sherlock Holmes on her doorstep.

Before he could say anything, she had ushered him in.

She was happy to see him. Her boy was back.

She didn't pause to consider when "the boy" had become "her boy" in her mind. It wasn't important.

She made tea, bustling around in her kitchen that was thankfully gun-free. Sherlock was studying her, and for the first time she wondered why she had been so little bothered by the police; after all she was the wife of a murderer.

Sherlock must have done something, she was sure of it. She knew he worked for the police in some way.

She had never asked.

As she filled the kettle, she wondered why. Finally she felt something of the woman she had been before years of living as the wife of a drug lord wore her down returning.

"Do you have a case here?" she asked when she handed him his cup.

"There are always cases" he answered. He hesitated. "In fact – "

He spent the next hour elaborating on the murder that had brought him here, and that he was thinking about settling down in London once more – she felt that there was a story behind the "once more", but knew that it wasn't the time to ask – when he had solved it.

His face lit up when he talked about his work. It was nice to look at.

She didn't flinch when he described the crime scene in detail. She had never been squeamish.

When he finally told her that he was frustrated with his lack of progress, she patted his hand and told him that he'd soon catch a break.

He smiled, he first real smile she had seen on his face. She decided she liked it.

Impulsively, she said, "You should drop by during the holidays. My sister is coming to visit me, and there will be more than enough cake and biscuits".

He stared.

"I – are you – "

She had never heard him stutter before, and secretly thought it was adorable.

Finally, he stopped talking and nodded.

"Thank you".

She smiled happily and made more tea.

For the first time in years, she wouldn't feel alone at Christmas.

**Author's note: That turned out darker than I expected. Oh well, hope you enjoyed it. **


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock and John hosting a Christmas party was not a new development, although Mycroft suspected it had far more to do with the doctor's and their landlady's enjoyment of the holiday than Sherlock's.

What was new, however, was that he wasn't only invited, but that his brother came to the Diogenes Club to no other purpose than to make him aware of the fact.

They had both long kept the habit of staying in London during the holidays, even though their mother and father were not pleased with this arrangement.

During all of these years – except for when there was an emergency Mycroft had to deal with so that the so-called leaders of their country could celebrate in peace – he had spent it alone.

For no reason, he remembered his very first in this big old city of theirs.

_He was twenty-two and had finally acquired a job in the Ministry of Inner Affairs. He would have been more than capable of doing so before, but people tended to be cautious of those who gained an important position too long, so he had resigned himself to wait._

_He would stay out of any big decisions for now; he would slowly work his way to where he wanted to be. _

_He would be content with what he had for the moment. _

_He had called Mummy and informed her that he would not make it home for the holidays. He had to admit that he had lied to her: he didn't have to work; in fact, the Minister had personally insisted that practically everyone but a few watchmen got Christmas holidays so they could "spent it with their loved ones"._

_Mycroft didn't think much of the Minister. _

_Mummy had sounded sad, but resigned, and Mycroft knew his parents well enough to be certain that they would make up for their children not being there by inviting friends._

"_Children" because Sherlock was studying in London and had declined to partake in any part of the festivities when Mycroft had visited him a few days ago. He hadn't expected anything different. It had been a long time since Sherlock had voluntarily spent more than a few minutes in the presence of a member of his family._

_The boy who had asked him to watch the stars was long gone._

_Mycroft figured it was good. Attachments would only slow him down, and Sherlock was certain to be a distraction as well as a danger to his position. He knew he took drugs when he was bored, although their parents were ignorant of the fact. _

_Mycroft and Sherlock certainly wouldn't spend Christmas together, even though their mother seemed to expect it. They would do what they had done since Sherlock had moved into town: ignore one another. _

_True, Mycroft could not do so really; Sherlock still needed someone to look after him. But they would not trade cards or presents or phone calls. _

_He still found himself watching the stars on Christmas Eve, telling himself it had nothing to do with a young boy who only lived in his memory. _

When the footman approached him and indicated that someone was waiting for him in the visitor's room, he assumed it was another emergency.

Instead his brother was standing by the window, looking out.

"Sherlock" he greeted him. He turned around.

"Mycroft".

He would have expected this visit to lead to a demand for an interesting case or a stop of the surveillance – both of which he had heard again and again over the years, only the first now and then being paid heed to – but Sherlock simply said, "I have come to invite you to our party on Christmas Eve".

He hid his surprise, although Sherlock's face suggested that he didn't quite succeed.

"Will you come?" the consulting detective finally asked impatiently, and he nodded.

Before Sherlock could leave the room, he asked, "Who else is invited?"

"Just a few friends" Sherlock called out, and then he was gone.

Mycroft was left to contemplate when his brother had acquired enough friends to call them "a few".

* * *

><p>Sherlock strolled through the streets near the Diogenes Club. He had told John the previous evening that he intended to invite his brother, and the doctor had agreed – not exactly enthusiastically, but there was a part of his loyal best friend that still couldn't understand the British Government had let Sherlock track down Moriarty's web on his own.<p>

Greg would be there, of course, so he felt confident that his brother would speak with someone, at least.

He made his way to St. Bart's; Molly had already received her invitation along Greg, but he had yet to talk to Mike Stamford, who would undoubtedly come with his wife and children, if they had the time.

Sherlock had been told that children made a party more enjoyable, and while he didn't have any data to prove or disprove the theory, he would admit that Mike Stamford's weren't annoying.

Henry Knight and Louise Mortimer were travelling in from Dartmoor. He hadn't expected them to, but John had sent the invitations with good faith, and they had been readily accepted.

They would have quite a few guests in their home this year, so adding his brother didn't mean anything.

Of course Sherlock and Mycroft had grown closer again since his return. He couldn't deny it. Mycroft had all but stopped pestering him about new cases, and Sherlock had given up attempting to escape the surveillance.

They were safer with Mycroft watching, he reasoned. It had been a long time since Mycroft had tried to stop him from doing anything anyway.

John had thrown himself into the preparations.

Neither of them had mentioned Mary.

It had been over ten months now since she had passed on.

Sherlock couldn't grieve her, not after he had learned everything she had done, thanks to Mycroft, but he could grieve for John and the life he thought he would lead.

Instead of raising a family with the wife of his choice, he was back at 221B. As if nothing had changed.

Naturally, everything had. John had been very quiet for the first few months, Sherlock letting him have his space. The doctor didn't accompany him to cases, he barely left the flat, Mrs. Hudson bringing them groceries.

Since Sherlock's return, their friends had made it a habit to drop by. Greg, of course, had become a fixture in their flat at least three times a week, and Molly was over almost as much; Mike Stamford visited them much more often, and even Henry Knight and Louise Mortimer drove up from Dartmoor at least every two weeks.

Seb came to tea now and then as well. He'd visited him shortly after he had returned, and had kept coming back ever since, to their mutual surprise. Once, when John had still been living with Mary, he had met him on the stairs and entered the flat with a puzzled look.

Sherlock would have explained it if he could have done so, but he found himself unable to. All he knew was that suddenly Seb was on his way to become a friend of his.

It was strange to realize he had friends.

Speaking off –

He quickly sent Seb a text. He had come to their party last year, obviously surprised to see John with his wife, and had tried to comfort Sherlock, believing him to suffer from a broken heart. The idea was preposterous, but Sherlock had learned to differ between annoying behaviour that stemmed from kindness from that that was just being annoying for the sake of it, and he had simply informed the banker about the real state of their relationship.

Seb had shrugged. "The first time I try to comfort someone in years – don't tell anyone, but bankers are supposed to be heartless bastards".

Sherlock smirked.

"I would never have guessed".

Seb answered immediately that he would come. Sherlock continued to St. Bart's.

Mike was done with his classes for the day and was certain to take a coffee at the cafeteria before he left, chatting with his colleagues.

As always, he noticed Sherlock as soon as he had entered and waved. It had always fascinated him, this ability of Mike's to tell right at once when an acquaintance of his, however fleeting, was in the proximity.

"Mike".

"Hello, Sherlock. How are you?"

Smalltalk was always required when one met Mike. These days, he asked rather more often if everything was alright; it had to do with John, of course.

After he had assure him that they were fine – the unspoken "under the circumstances" no doubt hear by the teacher – Mike happily told them that he and his family would gladly attend their party.

Everyone would come, then.

He hoped John would enjoy it. John's grief was something they didn't talk about. Sherlock wouldn't have known what to say; he might possess feelings, he had admitted it after decades of trying to deny it, and he was no stranger to grief, but he could not pretend that he would ever be able to understand what John had gone through. He had decided that, if John wanted to talk, he would listen, and if he didn't, he wouldn't force him to, and the doctor had rewarded him with getting better, eventually accompanying him on cases again and now decorating their flat with the help of Mrs. Hudson – he still could not see the point in it, but would admit that it looked beautiful.

And the smile John bestowed on him when he told him everyone would come made agreeing to once more celebrate Christmas more than worth it.

The guests arrived punctually on Christmas Eve, Mrs. Hudson happily bustling everyone upstairs, Sherlock and John greeting them in the flat.

As far as he could tell, everyone had a good time, and he was quite entertained himself, even though he made a point of being dragged to join the party by John because he knew the doctor would have fun doing it.

He was coerced into playing carols again, and he submitted with somewhat more grace than during their last parties, but he still refused to wear the hat. Afterwards, he went into the kitchen to get himself a drink and came to stand in the doorway, watching his friends.

A somewhat tipsy Greg was trying to explain to Mycroft why football was a very important sport to watch. Sherlock caught Molly's eyes and they both turned away to hide their laughter.

Before he moved on, he touched his brother's shoulder.

"It's a clear night".

Mycroft looked at him and nodded, smiling slightly.

They would once more look up at the stars on Christmas Eve, after everyone else had left and gone to bed.

For now, though, Sherlock came to stand beside Henry Knight, who told him excitedly about the renovations on his father's house he was planning and the company he was hoping to found.

Suddenly, Sherlock realized that John was standing apart in a corner. He met Mrs. Hudson's eyes and, according to what he read in them, he moved to join his friend.

It was his first Christmas without Mary.

"John?"

John had an undecipherable expression on his normally easy to read face. It was disconcerting.

"Mike's children are growing all the time, and Greg should really ask Molly out, and Henry is about to start his own publishing company" he said, "and I never expected that I would actually like Seb".

Sherlock waited for him to continue as the banker's genuine laugh – not the false one he had used so often at uni or during his career – floated once more towards them.

"I'm fine" John assured him. "It's just... For a while I forgot..." he trailed off to look over the room, at all of those who had gathered to celebrate with them. He smiled at Sherlock.

"For while I forgot there's more than one kind of family".

Turning to look at the full room once more, couldn't help but agree.

**Author's note: All that is left to wish you a merry Christmas. May it be wonderful and happy, may you spend time with those you love, and may you look back upon it happily for years to come.**

**Hekate**


End file.
